Sharpened Poems | Examples

Bonehead Blues

Borrowed the neighbors chainsaw
Oiled it, sharpened the blades
Never used one before 
Except that time I tried to fillet a fish
Had to trim my tree
Each branch trespassed next door
Already ate their criticisms for lunch
Dang! How do you start this thing?
Better read the instructions again
Life erupts from inanimate arbor barber
Usually, this job would be a breeze
Except, I sliced through the limb...
Severed my left shinbone

Bloodsuckers Blood Bank

Count Olaf Von Farlow was a few quarts low

He followed the scent, he followed his nose

Gonna do a fly-by, wide-eyed, don't you know 

Gotta do a fly-by low, to detect the flow

Now, Count Olaf's down, and he's blood bank bound

Incisors sharpened, with moldy, molded crown

That's "Olaf Von Farlow"...never hyphened

The Teller there, unaware...got siphoned

A Draconian State

Orders descend like sharpened hail
each shard cutting language to ribbons.
We learn to swallow pain quietly,
to bow our eyes before the flag of silence.

Walls do not need ears...
fear builds its own cathedral,
where every heartbeat kneels
to the god of obedience.

Children are taught to trace straight lines,
never to bend them back into loops.
Curves are forbidden
too dangerous a hint
that what dies might begin again.

Even breathing is tallied,
counted like coins in the dark.
Still, a single breath slips past.
Unmeasured, unowned 
a secret chord that rattles
the cage of silence.

From that small ignition,
the world remembers how to grow.

the absence of above

i seem to view the world in black and white despite my rainbow soul

my skin seems to seep the moisture of ones misfortune goal

i sharpened my broken fingers regardless of my rusty bones

in hope to fight all misfortunes and hell’s unwelcomed call

instead, i cut myself to pieces until there’s nothing left

then my rainbow soul escapes my flesh to find vengeance for my death

but i heard the screeching sound from hell shouting out my name

still i looked upon the heavens to search for the almighty fame

i raised my hands beyond the skies to get a hold of his love

but the void sucked my soul away in the absence of above

I Am The Frost

I am not warmth denied.  
I am clarity revealed.

You call me cold, as if that were a curse.  
But cold is not cruelty.  
Cold is precision.  
Cold is the silence that listens longer than the noise ever could.

I was not born in comfort.  
I was forged in exile—cast out by blood, by law, by the trembling hands of those who feared what they could not name.  
They called me devil.  
They called me waste.  
They called me dangerous.  
But I did not burn.  
I crystallized.

I walk alone, not because I choose solitude,  
but because the world chose to shut its doors.  
And in that silence, I found my shape.  
Not broken. Not bitter.  
Just sharpened.

I am the frost that coats the edges of truth.  
I do not flinch.  
I do not beg.  
I do not melt for comfort.

I am the one grain that stands apart.  
I am the breath in the winter air that reminds you you’re alive.  
I am the chill that wakes you from delusion.  
I am the clarity that comes when the fire dies down and the lies stop burning.

You may fear me.  
You may misjudge me.  
But you will not erase me.

I am the frost.  
And I endure.

Blood That Isn't Mine

A name I gave, a hand I fed,
Nights of toil, my dreams I bled.
The cradle rocked with borrowed cries,
Yet truth lay veiled in whispered lies.

I wore the crown of fatherhood,
Built a home from flesh and wood.
But silence kept its sharpened sword,
And struck me down—paternity fraud.

DNA, a ruthless guide,
Revealed the secret long denied.
The mirror cracked, the lineage torn,
A trust betrayed, a child forlorn.

Oh, heavy weight of hidden sins,
Where family breaks, and pain begins.
Love was real, yet roots deceived,
A father made, but not conceived.

So judge not quick, nor love disown,
For bonds of heart are seeds well sown.
But let the law, with justice broad,
Stand guard against paternity fraud.

The Zodiac Wheel

In Atlantis,
we were not star-gazers—
we were time engineers.
The constellations were gates,
breathing frequencies
into the bones of man.

The stars are not above us,
I whispered to my students,
they are the memories within us.

To us,
the zodiac was not prediction,
but remembrance—
a wheel of origins
spinning in our veins.

Our Lemurian brothers
did not chart the heavens—
they felt them,
as sacred tones in the waters,
as songs trembling
in the heart’s tide.

We, the Atlanteans,
cut the skies with mind,
sharpened by precision,
hungry to master
what should only be served.

Aries—fire of the first incarnation.
Scorpio—the keeper of endings,
death and return.
Virgo—the servant
of divine design.
Aquarius—blueprint
of the cosmic mind.

But knowledge turned sword.
The wheel we built for healing
was stolen by the elites,
its power bent,
its harmony undone.

And so Atlantis fell,
and Lemuria drowned,
and the zodiac we once lived by
was scattered—
like broken stars
across the sea of forgetting.

Slanderella

She came down screaming, cloaked in flame,  
A bolt of spite, no soul to tame.  
From hilltop high she cast her spell—  
The art of slander, taught too well.  

They built her shrines in whispered breath,  
In gossip’s grip, they danced with death.  
Her tongue, a blade that cuts unseen,  
Yet worshiped like some vengeful queen.  

She taught them how to twist the truth,  
To poison joy, corrupt the youth.  
No proof required, no facts to weigh—  
Just sharpened words to flay and flay.  

I walk beneath her shadowed reign,  
Each rumor like a drop of rain.  
It floods my name, it stains my skin,  
A war I never asked to win.  

They speak as if their hearts are stone,  
No warmth, no grace, just undertone.  
Their minds are mirrors cracked with spite,  
Reflecting only what’s not right.  

No thought of kindness, no repair,  
Just venom laced in vacant stare.  
They feed on fear, they starve on hope,  
And swing their lies like braided rope.  

Yet still I rise, though torn and bruised,  
Refusing to be so misused.  
For truth, though quiet, holds its ground—  
And Slanderella will be drowned.

HUMANITY’S WASTE

Another morning drowned in the tar of nightmares,
Where hope commits suicide at the tip of a deceitful syringe.
Demons scream insults, eyes stab like blades,
And smiles are but traps with finely sharpened swords.
Humanity crumbles in the ashes of its own betrayals,
Their outstretched hand hides a blade, their blessing, a curse.
We pray to sterile idols, we sacrifice the soul for a few clicks,
And today’s kings rule on plastic thrones.
They say evil is the exception but I see it reign,
In the streets, in the homes, in the hearts, in the palaces.
I saw kindness strangled beneath the laughter of a cynical world,
I saw innocence stoned, sacrificed for aesthetics.
I believe no more but in my rage, my pain, my memory:
They alone do not betray me, they alone speak truth.
I wander through a desert of shadows, with no guide, no faith, no brother,
A voluntary exile from this planet rotting with war.
If the universe holds a scale, it tips toward decay,
And I, surviving on principle, sink deeper into the crack.
A victim's lament, a silent ordeal, one final truth:
This world is but a circus of demons in search of humanity.

Gotcha!

Tingly skies full of surprise oh how I love when I surmise,
 the little rascal aims his dart as if it were, poetic art!

Nobody knows where it might hit, but rest assured, in seconds split,
 that mischief maker's dart will pierce an unsuspecting heart.  

With his freshly sharpened tool, our lover boy creates a silly fool, 
  but, if his arrow punctures you, know his aim is pure and true.

This angel's wish, you must abide.  Forget your pride.  Enjoy the ride!
  When cupid's arrow aims for you, there isn't much that you can do!

Each Obituary I Read is Mine

a curtal sonnet

Each obituary I read is mine;
husband, wife, son and daughter abide where 
the records of their lives do still exist;
motality belongs to time's design,
stitching out each minute without prayer,
and you are simply helpless to resist

the imagination of the Weavers~
when will Atropos become the slayer,
and with her sharpened scissors give a twist,
putting all your plans to naught as reavers
take your soul for grist?

To the Crown Prince

O brilliant son of the desert,
You rose through the maze of your House
With precision sharper than a blade.
The future trembles beneath your feet—
But power, untempered by wisdom,
Is a fire that devours its bearer.

Do not chase the glory of empires too fast.
Rome was not built in one day—
And neither shall a just Arabia.
You cannot serve two masters:
The West with its silver tongue,
And your people, whose eyes still hunger.

Choose neutrality not as weakness,
But as strategy.
Your true legacy lies not in gold towers,
But in lifting the soul of your nation.

Forsake not your brother, Iran.
To unite the Crescent is to raise a new dawn.
The blood of Gaza weeps through the sand,
And every drop asks:
"Where is our brother?"

Sunni, Shia, Sufi—one people,
Divided by politics, not by God.
To unite them is to write your name beside kings,
To divide them is to sow your own ruin.

Beware the advisors with smiles from Tel Aviv
And tongues sharpened in Washington.
They do not dream for you—
They only use your night to hide their shadow.

The Middle East can rise again,
But only if you learn this truth:
Real power is not feared,
It is trusted.

Winter Withers

Winter Withers

…… its way into the woods
and waits….and wonders….and watches
until…. No-one is looking.
Boorishly, an ally introduces itself,
an iced-sliced wind to quiver-shiver
the woods’ most tender saplings;
to shudder the aged evergreens
with sharpened, encrusted crystals 
sandpapering the toughest, roughest bark.

Weather warning complete, 
Winter then crunches forward,
cold shouldering its way through the night
to finally rest against a solitary cabin.
Inside that logged shelter, Man awakens
allowing his thoughts freedom
from the waiting room of his mind.
Man has learned how to listen,
but much more importantly,
this man has listened how to learn!
What he now sharply tells himself is…
Winter has arrived; survival demands action.

Man has lived for a year with Mother Nature 
after his severance with city life;
he now feels a yearning for the three R’s:
reconnecting, refiguring and relocating.
Man can’t allow Winter’s weathered wings 
to embrace him with glacial isolation
nor allow its benumbed playmate… Loneliness
to knock, again, on that fragile, front door.


Ian Souter

Shards Of Singularity

Blunt sense sharpened by subtle trance
lacerates the languishing psyche
that doesn’t slink,
unwary of mortal deception.
The shards of singularity 
transfigure in a blink
into passion potion of dreams,
adrift in ephemeral delusive flow,
porous essence sips the sanguine drink.

Chum in the Water?

You came in loud like that was wise—
just flung your muddy paws around,
all growls and spit and cow-dumb eyes.
You came in loud.

This isn't turf. It’s neutral ground.
Your claws too dull to even fight—
the lie you told, that fish can drown.

My instrument, sharpened to thrive,
harvests now free range, as wolf-hound's
alter ego preys on roe-fed lives.
You came in loud.

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